Walking Meditation

I spent the day in Luxun Park in North Shanghai. It was a once or twice a year kind of day. Spring emerging, cheating winter out of a day. And I’m free to enjoy it. Crisp and fresh and fragrant. Warm in the sun. Cool in the shade.

For those of you lucky enough to live near a big city park, you know well the social masterpiece that takes place on this carefully crafted and maintained stage. On a day for quiet, I walked. Breathing deep the joy of life around me.

Old couples dancing in coordinated step to old Chinese classics

A kite stuck in a tree

Practicing calligraphy with water on black pavement. Liquid blends dirt and rock. Getting darker.

An old woman in a wool coat and trousers – using green metal fencing to stretch our her legs

Men huddled around the Xingqi board. Women crowd the card table.

The wedding couple walks by. Photographer in tow. Photographer helper in tow’s tow.

Football stadium pokes out through the spring blossoms. Massive Nike ads of Ronaldo and Torres wave in the wind.

The odd business man practicing Tai Chi. Alone. His suit stands out in the crowd of passer-bys.

Women singing a duet as the wood block keeps semi-steady rhythm and the violin swims in the background. The wheelchairs circle round.

Bamboo scaffolding. New building.

Men’s gossip corner. An audience for anyone. An ever-eavesdropping ear.

Another casual observer.

A fuchsia overcoat. You just don’t see those around.

Two kinds of magnolia.

String, sticks and a spinning top. He’s learning. This one’s caught the rhythm. He has gloves; the master on stage.

Clap front. Clap back. Clap front. Clap back. Clap front. Clap back.

Studies a three-page foldout in the weekly news magazine.

Walk backward. Walk forward.
Walk alone. Walk arm in arm. Walk arm with bag. Arm with baby.
Walk with a gaping goofy smile.

On the move. A huge blue and white construction truck. Heading for bamboo scaffolding.

Yellow forsythia. Brighter than yellow ever imagined. Struck across tender willow greens.

Jeans that say “jeans” accompanied by frazzle-dried, red-dyed hair. A mischievous smile. “Should I push him in? Could I?”

Two-year old playing ball. Can’t let it fall in the water. Grandpa chases successfully. The sidelines watch and enjoy and help when necessary. The game must go on. Lilo and Stitch must stay dry.

A silent study of flowers with camera.

Ground shakes. Train underneath.

Up the stairs. At the top, a victorious yelp. Down again. Repeat. Many times. Many yelps.

Exquisite rock landscaping brings life and layers to the garden. Someone put the right person on the job.

Cigarette #9. 11:23am.

Two men in camouflage walk easily with their pruning shears. There smiles shouting. “It’s a perfect day to work in the garden.”

A saxophone warms up on the hill.

Blossoms. Soft. Pink. Yellow. White. Green.

A disfigured face. Purple and yellow. Swollen. Not self-conscious.

Attracting a crowd. The boys surround and stare. Seconds pass. Will they speak? “Hello. What are you doing?”

Memory welcomes back a day in Rome. Losing my way outside the Aventino. Panini and a Peroni.

Snipping badminton shuttlecocks. They will fly faster now. Two cigarettes of work. No sweat. Back to the court.

Marching with vigorous arm sways. Middle-aged women exercise.

Saxophone still warming up. Another Yelp.

Lunchtime.

Enter the Dragon

The Eastern China Airlines flight touched down early in the afternoon and I passed through the non-descript Pudong airport without a second thought. It felt more like a terminal in Milwaukee than one of the major ports of entry for the most populated country on the planet. An interesting signal. A lot can be learned about a city by the feel of its airport.

Clearing customs and loading up, we quickly arrived downtown. Chae Nam and I settled into our new digs at the “fashion-savvy” Rhea Hotel. Compared with the resourcefulness of our Chinese hosts (buying subway cards, getting haircuts, etc.) we spent the hour and a half doing relatively nothing (Fortunately, someone told me long ago a cardinal rule of travel. Don’t compare. Appreciate.). We made coffee and weighed ourselves on the scale (haven’t seen one in months, other than at the airport) – that was about it. When I travel in hotels, I relish the first hour of a new room. It’s feels clean and I unpack at a relaxed pace.

In a surprise break from the normally cold weather of March, we arrived on a day that leaned towards springtime. Despite the heavy and humid air, we enjoyed a subtly warm evening, cruising downtown to see the skyline at the Bund. We passed through the commercial hub of Shanghai on the way, decked to the hilt with lights. It didn’t match the obsession of Hong Kong and I was glad for that. It seemed a bit looser and dirtier. Delightful.

After some dumplings for dinner, we ended up on the river, looking at the increasingly well-known Shanghai skyline. It’s a good one. Not overwhelming, but still the Pearl Tower stands. There is an absolutely compelling LCD display on the side of one building. It projects motion pictures over 40 or 50 stories. It’s modern China and its stunning sharp.

Walking the promenade, I soaked it in alone. I’ve spent a lot of time with my team these past five weeks. I enjoyed taking the space to relax amidst the people. People covered the walkway. Shanghai, they say: “People mountains People sea”. Still, I feel alone. It’s easier amidst so many people than with two or three.

As I walked down, I made friends with a couple of young guys from Hunan Province. They were on holiday and in Shanghai to see the sights and take in China’s #1 metropolis. We chatted for 15 minutes (their English was good enough and they were kind to enjoy what little I know in Mandarin). A pair of old friends from the neighborhood. One helps his Dad run the family mop factory. The other is a liberal arts student at university. I couldn’t help but be warmed by their spirit. I had to admit my own prejudgment: that the Chinese people might be a bit colder on the mainland than they were in Taiwan or Hong Kong. On this occasion, I was happy to feel so wrong and thus, so welcomed.

The guys made me smile. It’s not necessary to go out of one’s way to make a friend or even to say hello to a stranger. If anyone, I’m naturally happy to keep to myself. I rarely extend a warm hand to a random walking down the street. Still, it made all the difference to me tonight. I told them that they were true ambassadors; Not only for China, but for all people and the human-quality of friendliness.

It didn’t take long for me to get home at night though the trains were still buzzing after 9. The whole way home I couldn’t shake off the smile I received from my new friends, nor my disbelief that damn! I’m in China! Enter the Dragon.

Helmut Lang or Homespun?

I’ve never seen a city like this before. Far from the romantic images of an East-West port city in transition through the 20th century, 21st century Hong Kong smacks of globalization.

Visually, it is something to behold. Hong Kong is unlike anywhere I’ve ever been. Framed by volcano-shaped mountains, the city consumes a few islands and over 6,000 glass-metal-concrete spires shoot skyward in a sea of skyscrapers. Pitched against the March mountains and the blue-green harbor, it’s a combination of human and natural engineering that left me inspired with mouth agape for days on end.

I’ve enjoyed my time here, welcomed by a number of generous hosts and even catching up with an old friend on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon.

But there is a certain heaviness here. In so many ways, there is no question that the city sparkles. But what’s underneath her clothes? A heavy and haunted history. Born from that, one sees/feels/hears the emptiness underneath the glamorous designer wares and latest plastic sheen.

The other day I sat out lounging on the deck outside the International Financial Centre, cooling over an ice tea. After walking past what seemed like the 18th Salvatore Ferragamo store I’ve seen since I arrived in town, I sat and watched the other patrons. A perfect deck, elevated and harbor-viewed and my friend and I even scored some classic fully-pillowed couch. Perfect day. Choice spot.

But as I sat there, I started to feel as if I was on a see-saw – pitched in the middle of two swaying sides. The seemingly opposed sides became crystal in my minds eyes.

On one, I could feel the spirit of materialism that has raised me up since I was a child. Whether its a couple hundred thousand commercials or my senses that developed to understand smells, sights and sounds, I’ve learned all about material things. I’ve learned to appreciate all kinds of things too: a new baseball glove, cheap wine, fine cigars, GI Joes, fresh basil, a well-cut shirt. I’ve learned to appreciate giving and getting. Things that are free and things that you pay for. And here I was sitting on a nice deck, sipping an over-priced drink with an old friend and feeling that life was just about as perfect as it could be at that moment.

I took all that in. The fact is that we are material beings. We rely on the things of the earth to provide us not only with entertainment or a good feeling, but much more practically giving us the nourishment, shelter and safety we need to live. At the same time, I’m more than well aware that material goods do not provide lasting happiness or security. They serve a purpose, but that purpose isn’t fulfillment. We can be satisfied with a meal, but we will be hungry again. We can enjoy a cigarette, but we will nic again. We can be happy with new pair of Italian leather shoes, but unhappy when we step in dog shit walking down the Roman street. (This first became clear to me studying the Buddha though many sages recognize the suffering that arises from desire for things – which naturally arises as a product of a overly-materialistic society).

But thinking of Buddha got me thinking of Gandhi’s autobiography. I was so compelled by his will to let go of much in order to strengthen his focus on truth and nonviolence. These two things, far from things you can “have” were worth more to him than accumulating anything other than a pair of chappals, some clothes he made by himself* and wearing a hairstyle that he cut by himself** (though as a British-trained barrister, he could have lived posh as). Surely his high thinking and practice served a remarkable purpose for India and the world. Would it have been possible if he had been distracted by recurring desires to purchase the latest iProduct?

But can you live alone on the truth? Can you live alone on a good hug?

The truth with seesaws is that they show us two sides in comparison to each other. We ultimately see which one weighs more (or to which one we assign greater or lesser value). Between materialism and non-attachment there must be balance. We are material beings, yet we have a degree of conscience unparalleled on earth.

So how to balance? In Hong Kong, the seesaw tilts one way more than the other. How about your seesaw? How does it balance?***

*Reminded me of a shirt my friend Ngan wears. It says: “The best things aren’t things”. Of course, it’s a on a shirt, probably costing more because it of what it says Perhaps its also of more attachment for her because it’s a clever and perhaps “good” shirt.

** In a somewhat poignant side note. Gandhi’s watch, glasses and chappals recently went up for auction in New York. The proceedings caused such a stir that the items were eventually removed form the auction block. Seems they couldn’t decide who should “have” them. I can almost hear Gandhiji sigh heavily and patiently.

***As it goes sometimes, I read some supremely incisive words during my time on the seesaw. This came from the Gospel of Mark. “Listen carefully to what I am saying – be wary of the shrewd advice that tells you how to get ahead in the world on your own. Giving, not getting, is the way. Generosity begets generosity. Stinginess impoverishes.” (4:24-25)

A Solid Start But a Lasting Aftershock

10 years ago, a major earthquake devastated central Taiwan. As a topographic gem, the island displays a spine of sharp mountains around 10,000 feet that shoot up from the surrounding lowlands. It makes the scenery absolutely stunning, but it’s the surface level beauty of the shifting plates underneath. Earthquakes are imminent here. But none had rattled the people like the 1999 incident. In September of that year, a major seismic event shook the Nantou area. The aftershocks destroyed major infrastructure and claimed about 9,000 lives.

Like New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina, Nantou became a rallying cry for the human spirit. Volunteers and resources flocked to the region from throughout the island. The group I work with had a volunteer team in Taipei that flew into action. After mistakenly arriving in a small village outside of the main town, the team’s leaders connected with the village leaders and a lasting relationship started. Every other weekend for six years, a team of volunteers took the 4-hour bus ride from Taipei City to work on reconstructing the village.

Over time the village put brick on brick and eventually the old farming community began to look more modern. The team had to keep lively, quickly switching their role from house builders to community bridge-builders. In the fall-out of the event, families and old friends bickered over the new direction of the village. The volunteers used the skills and heart of a long tradition of trust-building work to bring the estranged parties together. Together, their efforts have built a new village.

We met some of the original group that helped with the recovery; a strong team of volunteers and villagers. I enjoyed hearing the stories of how people respond to moments of crisis. Fortunately, these weren’t only the heartwarming tales of service and selflessness, but the real stories of power-struggles and politics that arose when the money started showing up.

I heard a couple stories that emerged from the rubble.

First, the story of how one family welcomed my friend Oufang without a second thought. When she showed up in their village by mistake, their was good reason to raise suspicion. But instead of going through a strenuous and suspicious trust-building process, they saw purity in her spirit. They immediately opened up their house to her and she spent many days working out of their spare bedroom to organize community efforts and volunteer work. Frequently, they cooked meals for her and her entire volunteer team. 10 years later, she still gets invited back as family.

Second, the story of how crisis presents a great opportunity for change. While the village underwent a physical change, we met a young man who transformed at a personal and spiritual level. Just 14 when the earthquake occurred, he had already created a reputation for himself as the chief rabble-rouser in the village. His parents had reached wits end with him. But in the aftermath of the catastrophe, a new spirit emerged. He told me that the need became so obvious that he realized he could use his misguided energy to provide new direction for his village. Now Chang Zheng is an important community organizer, an already successful businessman and an emerging photographer. He’s coordinating a 10-year memorial that will be celebrated in the September.

Today, new struggles face the community. In the shade of the sprawling betel nut plantations, times are good for the farmers economically. The natural stimulant in the betel nuts provides them with ample income, even as these plantation make the soil increasingly vulnerable to mudslide should the earth shake again. But now the scourge isn’t the disrepair of the buildings, but alcoholism. Our afternoon meeting with one man felt quite different when we met him in the evening after his daily drink. Oufang told me alcoholism would continue to afflict the village until villagers sensed a renewed sense of purpose. Another struggle is the loss of young people. With fewer jobs in the countryside and increasing migration to city, the youth, with bolder professional dreams than their parents, continue to ship off to Taichung and Taipei (and even abroad) to pursue their hearts’ desire.

These aren’t the kind of problems that attract the aid and attention of a natural disaster, but perhaps they are as destructive and as important to address. But who will work with them – now that the crisis is complete but a steady aftershock continues?

The Faces of Infinity

Living in community always brings new and interesting experiences to my everyday. One particular facet of my life that’s completely opened since my work with Action for Life (starting in 2005) has been on the relational/emotional front.

One of our partners in work in Taiwan is a group called EQ that works primarily on just that – the Emotional Quotient. Developed out of some Western psychology/counseling coupled with an Eastern understanding, the center hit at the heart of an often unspoken issue in Taiwanese culture: family relations. In an effort to build a better society, a small, dedicated group decided to work on the issue . They have been highly successful and well-recognized for their work in Tainan. Their vision is that the city of Tainan will be not only nationally recognized, but internationally recognized as a city where families flourish.

Some of my colleagues have been involved with taking this work to other countries including Malaysia and South Korea. They hooked us up one afternoon and we were invited by the director to attend a session on grief healing.

When I first encountered this type of thing (kind of a group counseling vibe) several years back, I scoffed. I didn’t think I would gain anything new, or at least nothing that I couldn’t have figured out on my own. To be honest, some of that thinking has been validated. In attending a few sessions with my various teams, I’ve found little fresh in terms of intellectual concepts. It’s all fairly straight forward. But what catches me is that a) it forces me way outside my logical paradigm and comfort zone and b) its about real people and their real lives.

If you are like me, you might find it easy to tune into your own world; well aware of you’re own feelings, reactions, thoughts and experiences, but often unaware of others. As a highly self-interested person who is also happily and often aloof, years passed by me without much of a developed sense of empathy. Yes, I could sense another person’s joy and pain, but it wasn’t a gripping kind of connection – the kind of connection that can be a cornerstone understanding in a relationship.

But working with other people to process experiences and relationships has meant a couple of things. For one, it’s meant opening up parts of my life I’m often unwilling to share with others. For two, it’s meant learning about love and how to love in an incredibly new way.

Some people wear it all on their sleeve and they will gladly talk to you about deep feelings and relationships without hesitation. Others dig in and gladly set up their walls to keep certain things private. I’m more the latter, long ago figuring it would give me maximum leverage (read: power) to keep my hand full of my own secrets and others’ secrets ready to play when needed. Rarely has this been malicious. More self-interested.

Since learning that I don’t want to be part of those kinds of power games, I’ve slowly opened up. I’ve found that it can be helpful for someone to provide a specific format for doing so – someone who knows how to work with a group in this specific function. I find this particularly helpful when I’m working in team or community, as I don’t often offer much information without a helpful prompt or question (nor do many others). This type of experience (along with a number of others) began to bring out a great happiness in my heart – to share my experiences and adventures and feelings with people. If there was any obvious demonstration of this new leaf, you are reading it right now.

As I’ve opened up about myself, I’ve also learned to be more open in my reception of others. This has brought me great joy, enriching my understanding of the human experience through more personal relationships. It has also brought difficult challenges, requiring me to struggle with the deeper sufferings of human life and forcing me to adjust my own understandings of how and why existence is the way it is. Despite the difficulties, I wouldn’t trade my now-complicated canvas for the myopia of my old shoebox dioramas.

Last week I worked with my team to look deeply at the grief each of us carries around. The hurts of days past that still mark our souls and influence our actions today. I heard about the impact lonely family members had on their families. The response of children to parents who tried to love them, but didn’t love them the way the kids needed/wanted. The toll of a sibling’s death. Friends who let circumstances drive them apart.

When I hear one person’s experience, I’m shaken at the intense reality of their life. It can overwhelm me to think that each person I pass by on a city street lives with the same kind of deep existence – an ever-changing cloud of feelings and relationships, reactions and events, physiology and psychology, banal and sacred. We all share that.

But what comes of this? I’m moved by it. To learn about another person at a deep level allows me to transmit that understanding to each new person I meet. I can see that depth in all things. I an look into their eyes and see the infinity therein.

Levinas writes exquisitely on this subject. I loved reading his philosophy in college, but now I’m finding new ways to explore its practice: the challenge to radically experience the depth of life in the face-to-face encounter. And then to love.

Playing Politics

My family isn’t a political family, but since I can remember, our dinner table conversation revolved around current events of day. Over the past years, this has brought up some rich dialogue and some heated arguments that make me feel more Italian than I probably am. Which is a welcome side-effect of the debate.

This interest bubbled over one spring afternoon in Washington DC when I was 17. My AP Government teacher, Mr. Sanderson, brought my class to the capital to understand the federal government a little more clearly. I still remember going to the NRA and listening to their young PR man explain to us the important personal and constitutional merits of owning a firearm. Being a young New Jersey liberal who’d only used firearms at summer camp, I found his reasoning for owning an M-16 as pockmarked as a duck on the wrong end of a shotgun blast. In a what I can only imagine was some hormone-induced rage, I took him on in front of the class and felt that I legitimately held my own (which actually wasn’t too hard because he’d gone way too far into the realm of ridiculous). I visited the NRA headquarters again a couple years back and found myself to have a similar experience, except this time I let my high school students take on the work of debate as I sat back and tried to take the whole line of reasoning seriously. That said, my actual opinion on firearms is much more nuanced than “anti-gun” but I do think the NRA could do with some much deeper and more critical thinking on what they are actually trying to say/do/enact with their lobbying work.

Where am I going? Right, so as my interest in politics and policy grew, I later found myself living in the capital and visiting representatives, attending congressional hearings and generally living it up with a gentle case of Potomac Fever. So though I’m far removed from the mid-Atlantic, I felt quite at home when I spend an afternoon in Taipei visiting the party headquarters of the DPP.

The DPP founded in 1986 (can you imagine such a young political party?) largely as part of a response to the long-term rule of the KMT, the party in power since the arrival of Chiang Kai-Shek (this was following the communist revolution in China that finally succeeded in 1949). With the Republic’s Army on his side, Chiang rolled into Taiwan and quickly asserted dominance over the small island while setting a up a ruling party that governed with martial law for many years.

The emergence of the DPP took significant courage on the part of founding members. They took their initiative forward in a time of political persecution (Though its rarely mentioned, I’ve met two former political prisoners in Taiwan, one of whom was beaten into disfigurement for writing a pro-democracy editorial in the 70’s). The main objective of the DPP was to establish a democratically-elected Yuan (Congress) which was finally accomplished in 1991. They worked in a green-coalition for many years to counter the strength of the well-entrenched KMT party. Their rise to power climaxed in 2000 when they took a majority in the Yuan and their party leader, Chen Shui-bian, took the presidency.

It was a fascinating time to visit with the party and the two young leaders who met with my team for the afternoon. At the moment, the party is going through a major reorganization following the filing of massive money-laundering and corruption charges against the former president (who finished his second term in 2008). In the fall-out of the scandal, the party suffered dramatic losses in the 2008 election and its once-strong majority has dwindled below 25%. With major ground to recover, big changes are underway and we got to hear about them first hand.

The meeting was a good one. I found the representatives to be loyal to their cause but open and frank about the challenges facing their party. After all, the best way to face a problem is to acknowledge it outright. I found this promising. But one couldn’t help feeling in the middle of a major political battle. The DPP currently runs as a party against the ruling coalition of the KMT. They continue to paint a picture of the KMT through a filter of its anti-democratic policies of the past. They use fear as a major weapon in their fight, identifying KMT actions (such as recent coziness with China and a crackdown on a recent demonstrations) as a signal of a return to the more authoritarian structure they employed in previous decades. It’s fairly obvious that it’s the strategy of a group with its back against the wall – fairly passive and not very creative in terms of a proactive agenda. It’s a disappointing for a party that’s demonstrated real strength and potential in the past.

At the same time, the DPP takes up a fairly bold stance on matters of independence, China, UN status and membership in the World Health Organization. But with the country swamped in a faltering economy, issues of international standing are secondary to more immediate matters of crisis.

As a marginalized minority, it will be curious to see whether or not the DPP can become a relevant player again. When I asked about the ability to work with the KMT, the feeling did not seem particularly good. The DPP spends a lot of its time painting the KMT in a negative light and while politics does make strange bedfellows, the villainizing culture within the DPP seems to be quite strong. The party seems stuck between moving forwards with real initiatives and still being stuck in a paradigm that essentially disappeared in 1991.

Their opinions on international status are important and have a fair amount of backing in Taiwan. As pressure on the Taiwan Strait is likely to increase in the coming years, the DPP will have its say on the matter of whether or not Taiwan maintains its current “undecided” status with China, works towards a formal reunification with China or makes a claim for complete independence. In that pivotal discussion, I hope that it’s a party free of its long-term resentment and one that thinks more about what’s right for the whole island rather than its own power.

I wonder if we are doomed to the power politics of democracy. What I saw here was the same I’d expect from visiting Democratic or Republican headquarters in the States. Will we ever move into the so-called “post-party” politics that could liberate our thinking beyond simple paradigms and move us towards broader thinking on what is necessary for the people by the people instead of what’s best for the party?

The Wide World of Sports

In 1994, the World Cup came to the United States and my understanding of sport changed forever. Though I wasn’t so lucky, friends of mine attended games at the Meadowlands, the Italian squad held their training camp at a private school in New Jersey and I watched a tape-delayed final at a summer camp in New Hampshire, falling to the floor in agony as Baggio sent his spot-kick over the cross bar sending Romario and his Brazilian teammates into ecstasy. Sport for me became a real world event and my love affair for calcio began.

My passion for sport has only grown since my day as a kid and along with my world travels, its allowed me to enjoy much more global take on the world’s sporting situation. This has led me down many roads, including the unenviable task of trying to both a) understand and b) enjoy watching cricket (which they are desperately trying to make more palatable to the common viewer; they’ve chopped down 5-day test matches all the way down to 3-hour 20/20 matches. Hey, it’s a start.). But its learning cricket that has made my Indian experiences much richer and if you can name the Indian captain (MS Dhoni) to almost any Indian man, he will reward you with a smile of delight and a cup of chai.

But Taiwan’s sporting scene is much different from the pluralistic sports scene of America, or the ironic monotheism of cricket in India. Taiwan breaks down into a few top draw events: basketball, badminton and baseball. In this you can see the influence of the United States on the island, which is actually fairly obvious to a visitor’s eyes.

In the cities, basketball dominates – as it does in the States. It’s more suited for the urban landscape in terms of equipment and size of field. One can take a walk through any city in Taiwan and see the boys knocking down threes in baggy shorts and sleeveless shirts.

But with a large countryside of rice paddy, there is a huge affection for the more pastoral transpirings of a baseball game. In fact, one of Taiwan’s biggest exports is Wang Ching-Mien who starts for the New York Yankees (and to my own personal distaste, makes this place overwhelmingly pro-Empire). While Taiwan’s domestic game has suffered recently because of a gambling scandal, many Taiwanese play overseas (two, in fact are in the Red Sox farm system). It’s all to say that baseball matters here and my visit just happens to correspond with a little known but increasingly significant sporting event: the World Baseball Classic.

When they kicked off the inaugural classic in 2006, I half-loved and half-laughed at the idea. In theory, it’s a great idea. Baseball is an international sport with much of the Major Leagues filled up with imported talent from Latin America and the Far East. It’s no secret that the Sox have signed talent from Japan as much if not more for marketing than talent. In fact, almost every major league team has a substantial investment in the Caribbean where they have development houses for youth that resemble similar set-ups for the big European soccer outfits (NYT Magazine did an excellent article on the NY Mets globalization strategy in 2005). At the same time, the tournament hasn’t been able to gain all the world-class stars it would desire (who are prepping for the games that actually pay $$) and some team are downright pitiful (what is South Africa doing in the tournament? Really…?**)

But regardless of its feeling to me, its good here. With a history of back and forth over lands and political displays, this makes for really good east-Asian rivalries. And with baseball being a pre-dominant sport in Korea and Japan as well, this part of the tournament burns with some intensity.

But what I did not expect was that it would have a pull here in the way that the World Cup might have in other places in the world. At the moment, I’m sitting in a chilled out café in Tainan that looks like it would never even welcome a sports fan, but sure enough, they’ve circled several couches around a projector screen so patrons can look up and get the latest on the Taiwan-China game that’s underway. Last night I tuned in to watch Korea-Taiwan with my friend from Seoul.

Taiwan won’t make it out of the first round. Korea and Japan will dominate and represent Asia in the next round of the tournament. But its good to see this kind of competition emerging and to see what it looks like in another country. Last night I took a break from my bike ride across town to tune and watch the second inning of the Korea game with about 75 other people who were watching a big projection screen outside a Sony store downtown. Sure, its not Circo Massimo after Italy took the 2006 World Cup, but I think we’ll be hearing more about this event in years to come.

**For those interested in upsets, The Netherlands twice beat the Dominican Republic in the past week. It’s an impossible result. And it happened twice. Will be following this more closely than I originally thought.

Cao-Ching’s Commitment

One thing I love about life is that people are simply incredible beings. The stories we write, movies we watch, plays we act and canvases we cover are derived our human experience – the often incredible courage and faith and the remarkable way that events link together, the wild dreams and even the sometimes mundane details of turning them into reality. Life in this constant balance of inspiration and normalcy.

I’ve had the great blessing to be in a line of work that allows me to meet some of the people who are the dream-makers. The men and the women who couple passion, hope and perseverance and away they go.

Twenty years ago, Cao-Ching retired early from his position as a public servant in search of a deeper calling to serve God and his country. Without a clear leading, he reflected on it for about a year, seeking some divine guidance to raise the need he could address in Taiwanese society. The answer he received wasn’t a high profile or glamorous cause: he would dedicate the rest of his life to caring for people in a Permanent Vegetative State (PVS).

His faith took him on a 4-year trek around his country, knocking on doors to raise awareness, enlist support and collect donations for the work. With the cause relatively unknown in Taiwanese society at that time, he got little response. In fact, he only managed to recruit 700 supporters in those four years. That’s only about one person every two days. Still, he persisted.

After four years, he was able to rent some space in an old building by Taipei Main Station in downtown Taipei. The first bed he used to comfort his first patient was an old bureau that he converted to suit its new function. They still have it in the center. It moved me to see this humble piece of furniture, which he saw as the first step to a work that would affect the lives of thousands of people around the island. Visionaries see the unseen.

Cao-Ching opened his first center with an annual budget of about $30,000. 20 years later, the Genesis Social Welfare Foundation has 12 PVS centers, expanded to address the needs of the elderly and homeless and now operates on $60,000 a day. It’s the 6th largest NGO in Taiwan and has three more centres under development at the moment.

From a seed of inspiration, Cao-Ching followed his calling in faith and his actions brought the PVS issue to national recognition and demonstrated the massive potential of a fully-committed individual.

How does one respond to a life like that? For me, it begs the question of my own life: How committed am I to anything in my life? Would I drop everything if I got a sense of specific purpose for my life?

It becomes more and more obvious to me the level of commitment that is necessary to bring real constructive social change to the world. It’s a level of trust and discipline most find far too costly to be worth the sacrifice. But all important things require sacrifice at some point. In the end, its far more about willingness than what is sacrificed. The unique power of the spirit over the material

Small Town Taiwan

Fat on handmade noodles and steak, I rolled down the quiet main street with a French Father, who gently spoke with me of divine will in English, his third language. I never fail to be inspired by young men who commit themselves fully to a spiritual search. Particularly, one that brings them to small-town Taiwan.

Riding through the night, I worked to keep awake. My eyes weary and vision blurring I held conversation for 90 minutes before we arrived at a small Catholic monastery about 45 minutes outside Tainan City. The gates left open, my small team of seven unloaded our mini-van and walked up the stairs to a drop-dead sleep.

There are little things that start to happen when one travels with the intention of building relationships and experiencing culture. The word “no” often begins to slip from usage. If someone asks me or others to do/try/ask/say/build/write something, we often say “yes” and see where the rabbit hole goes. (I actually saw a British Late night show when a man tried this experiment out for some weeks at a time. His only answer to any yes-or-no question was “yes”. He wrote a book about it and the idea caught me. I’ve found myself being more affirmative ever since.)

So when Brother Thomas walked in on our afternoon meeting and asked if we would like to meet his pottery teacher, we agreed. Two minutes later we were at a sublime art studio off the main street. The warehouse split in two sections. To the right a potter’s wheel, two kilns and stack of ceramics in all parts of the process. To the left an open space with five working canvases. On the walls hung large portraits.

Immediately upon arrival, a middle-aged Taiwanese man approached in jeans and cracked leather shoes. We warmed to his good looks immediately and his English made the interaction easier. Within minutes we were into his work, peering around every corner of the studio. He paints and his wife write children’s books. A third artist works the wheel in the back.

It didn’t take long for my incessant questioning to strike gold. The portraits, large (3’x4’), oil heavy and worked with a spatula, displayed faces, almost mutated in their distortion. The depictions were harrowing, but human and I didn’t shy away from them. Instead, I drew closer, locking eyes with each and understanding the depths of the characters, anonymous yet vivid. They were pictures from memory. From intense memory.

The painter told the story of his political dissidence in the 1970’s. Well, dissidence would be perhaps an overstatement. That said, he told me that he had been a political prisoner in Taiwan for 2 years in his early 20’s. At somepoint he had disagreed with the ruling party of Taiwan (led by Chiang Kai Shek, who moved to Taiwan following the successful Communist Revolution on the mainland in 1949). A few small words landed him in prison where he stayed for 24 months along with a number of other inmates, many serving time for uncommitted crimes.

They were the faces, speaking out over the years to him as he taught in a primary school. They were the voices he tried to amplify through his work.

Times in Taiwan have changed. Martial law was lifted. Democratic elections in the Yuan took place in 1991. There’s even been a different ruling party in power at the federal level.

So has the life of this artist-teach. In a remarkable (and at one point unthinkable) turn of events he was personally invited by the Taiwanese president to display his work in the presidential palace two years ago. A new age of freedom and openness.

We arrived back at the monastery in time for the brothers’ evening expedition: Night Market. Every Tuesday the men head to the local town square to join the other hawkers, wielding twin pans of brilliant cake. The sweet is an obvious cover to hang out with the people in the market, but its fantastic nonetheless. We pitched up our lights, rolled out the extension chord and even busted out the guitars, drinking in the magical scene of the Taiwanese Night Market

It’s spring and with the cool air settled in, we traded roles selling (actually not really selling) our cakes, playing music and shooting hoops. Few people attended the market, so it was a hawkers affair. The old folks traded stories and conversations lilted gently behind larges spreads of goods ranging from cheap socks and underwear to meat cleavers and fingernail clippers. One outfit rented motorized cars for children while another let kids try to catch fish to take home.

Of course, these are all distant placeholders to the real stars of any night market. Yes, the food vendors. In all, food vendors took up at least half the market and they sizzled in the night. From prawn noodles to street meat, the mouth-watering aromas emanated from all corners. We were helpless. Within minutes we were pounding the puffed rice available for free at our table to satiate our whetted appetites. Of course, it didn’t take long for my friend Cheng to break. I’m sure she loves food more than anyone I know, which is impossible to understand when you see her petite frame. But her stomach, eye for cuisine and Mandarin skills instantly paid off as I found myself slurping up a bowl of noodle broth. But it was all appetizer to me as I walked directly to the king of it all, the street meat man.

One grilled squid, some chicken liver, another grilled squid, some bacon and a piece of pork later, I basked in the greatness. After 4 months of a fairly disciplined vegetarian diet, I had entered the land of the non-veg grill. I savored every last marinated morsel.

As the market dwindled, we grabbed the last of the cake (okay, we had only sold three pieces in two hours; which led to the obvious conclusion that the cake was a weekly [if not delicious] cover to hang out with the townspeople) and traveled with our product. Behind the power of some good-looking women, a little background guitar, a nice product and bit of peer pressure, we managed to unload about 15 pieces in 15 minutes, emptying the tray and putting a smile on everyone’s face. Elated, we packed up our gear and walked down the street.

Every week, the men head to the same noodle man for some post market chill time. It’s tradition and as such, it instantly took me. It reminded me of days back in Plainsboro, eating McDonald’s after Young Life. Eating fries and milkshakes and playing out a million high school dramas. Minus the theatre and hormones, the weekly noodle run brought a smile to my face.

We sat down with the chef and owner as we ate. He always waits for the brothers before closing up shop on Tuesdays. They chow and talk and laugh and listen. Tonight it was a lovely scene with the French brothers and their Chinese friends taking in a group of foreigners at the long table, sipping black red-tea-coffee and slurping soup. As we finished up, we snapped a photo out front with the owner and his son. A more memorable night in small town Taiwan.

Lesson 4: Catching the Vision

Working in a team or living with people in a community is challenging work. This past week I found myself being dragged down by a few negative voices in my midst. As negativity can be quite contagious, I felt myself and the whole group being affected.

I grouped with my leadership team to see what could be done to change the situation. We decided to throw our whole-hearted energy into working with these few individuals. Our hope was to bring a new understanding, a new line of sight that would shift perspective and thus behaviour. For a good week we went at this business. We made some progress, but I felt the efforts were moving too slowly as compared to the increasing impact on the other side. For one, the whole group still felt the burden of this negativity. And two, because I was so focused on addressing it and was not getting the type of response I wanted, my spirit drained. I started to flat-line along with the rest of my leadership team.

The situation required a new tack. A good friend met with us over lunch and issued a stern challenge: “What direction will you take this group? What’s happening now isn’t the answer and you have to decide how you want to lead. Now is the time.”

That morning during some time in reflection I had been thinking that the vision needed to become more real to everyone. We needed to understand the importance and the urgency of accomplishing what we all had come to do. As I mentioned this to my team in the subsequent discussion, a new realization came to light. The vision would provide the answer we needed.

So far, our energy had been drained by throwing water on a fire of problems, but we hadn’t looked around to see that a) most of the place was not on fire and b) many of the people were either helping fight the fire or even better, thinking on issues beyond the fire altogether (to stay with the analogy, this means they were thinking that the fire was actually a very small issue that would eventually burn-out on its own).

What we found was that the key to restoration was to re-center the work of the community on the vision and not the problems that were eating it up because of naval-gazing. Further, we shifted our focus on building up those who had the vision already and celebrated their development publicly. By bringing the vision to the front, we began to see a gentle movement towards looking up and ahead instead of down and in. By working with the visionaries, we felt our own energy rise and the group rally behind some champions who, in turn, took the opportunity to rally their colleagues and lead the way.

It didn’t transform every problem into an answer, but it did demonstrate to me the power of two things: One, the power of negativity and “fire-fighting” to bring things down and to make the scope of seeing and thinking increasingly myopic. And two, the power of vision and affirmation to lift a group to be it’s creative best.

Problems are always with us. Discussing the vision and affirmation can be tasks on a checklist. But if we can lift our eyes to see the vision with a genuine freshness and share it in kind – oh, how the water rises!